Your father, a poet,
Is published.
You are certain
We haven't heard of him.
Your soft clear face,
Brushed with hair,
Crinkles in concentration,
Searches for trees.
Rumpled in boy's sheets,
Belly pressed towards sleep,
A hair wave trundles down
Neck and shoulders.
Flannel pajamas form
You and winter scenes
Of snowmen and skaters
Tickle your pale flanks.
The machine kicks in after four
Rings, pressing pleas of
Happiness onto erasable tape.
You screen every call.
You are pressured by the phone.
The vinyl bench in the Blue Metroline
Train presses your intense desire
For freedom into my back.
I sit and write a letter,
From my suburban room, forming words
that tell why I could miss
The last Metro home.
Your father, a poet,
Is published.
You are certain
We haven't heard of him.
Your soft clear face,
Brushed with hair,
Crinkles in concentration,
Searches for trees.
Rumpled in boy's sheets,
Belly pressed towards sleep,
A hair wave trundles down
Neck and shoulders.
Flannel pajamas form
You and winter scenes
Of snowmen and skaters
Tickle your pale flanks.
The machine kicks in after four
Rings, pressing pleas of
Happiness onto erasable tape.
You screen every call.
You are pressured by the phone.
The vinyl bench in the Blue Metroline
Train presses your intense desire
For freedom into my back.
I sit and write a letter,
From my suburban room, forming words
that tell why I could miss
The last Metro home.
it is a memory of
teeth and bruises
it is a memory of
fire and poison
words over bear
liters of scotch
portions of songs
huddled over tears
in the corner on the
floor all night
mugs of water drunk
poured; a desk, a floor
bruises to hide
coffee brewed and tea
over bread and cheese
grimaces, teeth
firm slaps anger
revulsion, raw bare
passion resonating
to the burning of
Sting all night
the fatigue held in
bones, in flesh,
the sting of hangover
i am not your friend
you are not my friend
not enough time has
passed and why doesn't
this lover just leave
in the morning you
ask me you ask and you
are so sad so tired so
strong. I watched the
muscled arms, the tense
torso, the sprung legs
round angry thighs
breasts pressing forward
held tight all day in
oppressive heavy work
still so sad so sick from
love running until the
lungs burn and cheeks red
panicked late at night
tears and music and then,
"do you know tosca, do you?
you must visit slovenia
you must understand you
must sense this kind of
love to understand why
i took the cigarette and
burned out my own face
why i am wild
why i am crazed
why i am so cruel
why you must hate me
to truly love me
to be my lover now"
i see your pretty body
and short hair with bangs
dark with lighter stripes
"this is me; this is me"
so beautiful all of it
but sad and dangerous
"most creatures under god
are harmless unless frightened,
cornered or sick," i thought.
so lovely so successful
so formidable so brilliant
yet nothing without love?
and a tender embrace
a tender kiss and a walk
to the tram station, 7b
it is a memory of
teeth and bruises
it is a memory of
fire and poison
words over bear
liters of scotch
portions of songs
huddled over tears
in the corner on the
floor all night
mugs of water drunk
poured; a desk, a floor
bruises to hide
coffee brewed and tea
over bread and cheese
grimaces, teeth
firm slaps anger
revulsion, raw bare
passion resonating
to the burning of
Sting all night
the fatigue held in
bones, in flesh,
the sting of hangover
i am not your friend
you are not my friend
not enough time has
passed and why doesn't
this lover just leave
in the morning you
ask me you ask and you
are so sad so tired so
strong. I watched the
muscled arms, the tense
torso, the sprung legs
round angry thighs
breasts pressing forward
held tight all day in
oppressive heavy work
still so sad so sick from
love running until the
lungs burn and cheeks red
panicked late at night
tears and music and then,
"do you know tosca, do you?
you must visit slovenia
you must understand you
must sense this kind of
love to understand why
i took the cigarette and
burned out my own face
why i am wild
why i am crazed
why i am so cruel
why you must hate me
to truly love me
to be my lover now"
i see your pretty body
and short hair with bangs
dark with lighter stripes
"this is me; this is me"
so beautiful all of it
but sad and dangerous
"most creatures under god
are harmless unless frightened,
cornered or sick," i thought.
so lovely so successful
so formidable so brilliant
yet nothing without love?
and a tender embrace
a tender kiss and a walk
to the tram station, 7b
The prude can excites me
With her steady repression --
The imagined red nipple
Held firm in underwire,
Nestled in starched sturdy fabric,
Runs electric.
The heart of the matter.
I see myself an obvious man
of illicit intent, my raunchy brow
Dotted sheen sweat,
an admittance
Of phallic degeneration.
Thighs interest me more than
The lips for they support,
Hug, press, sometimes undulate
Underneath while the lips
Only consume and then render
Useless pulp.
The prude can excites me
With her steady repression --
The imagined red nipple
Held firm in underwire,
Nestled in starched sturdy fabric,
Runs electric.
The heart of the matter.
I see myself an obvious man
of illicit intent, my raunchy brow
Dotted sheen sweat,
an admittance
Of phallic degeneration.
Thighs interest me more than
The lips for they support,
Hug, press, sometimes undulate
Underneath while the lips
Only consume and then render
Useless pulp.
It kept on jamming up so
I tool a breather and sat down
to read some pages from a
fat book on UNIX.
It kept on jamming up so
I tool a breather and sat down
to read some pages from a
fat book on UNIX.
not today as we wait for the blue line train to take us from capitol hill south to dupont. her hair stays down even after the transfer. the ceiling, honeycomb arches, painted nicely in only some stations. for the pleasure of the policy makers. for the concrete arches turn dark with age. grimy. the formed rock takes the soot from long days and rubs it deep. the pale grey paint is ghoulish. unnatural like whitewashed brick or brownstone. an afterthought. bad design. Impossible to sand blast or scrub.
i sit with her waiting for the train. after coffee. lattes.
(she sits with her leg folded under her. or a knee pulled tight into her chest. her limbs are slender, she takes up no room at all. but once, years ago, i thought she was quite tall. when she walks her back is straight, her back arched. she bounds in spite of heavy oxfords and rugged jeans. rough fabric like husk protecting tender flesh. her lips have natural color contrasting with her smooth pale skin. i noticed these things years before. old news except for the navel ring. that is new news. leather jacket. an easy of movement. wire rimmed glasses.)
the metro came after a short while. it passed us as we at, my legs sprawled, knees apart; she sitting with legs under her. we stood and watched as the short train, only several cars, pulled way past us and we needed to walk a long way.
it made my hung mind clearer to spend time with her. to spend time outside on a winter day of 65 degrees. warm in jeans and a button down. walking under balmy skies. through eastern market. my head is throbbing. my throat is tight and i want to vomit and never smoke, never drink again. purge the toxins from my soul. from my body.
©1997 Chris Abraham ]]>not today as we wait for the blue line train to take us from capitol hill south to dupont. her hair stays down even after the transfer. the ceiling, honeycomb arches, painted nicely in only some stations. for the pleasure of the policy makers. for the concrete arches turn dark with age. grimy. the formed rock takes the soot from long days and rubs it deep. the pale grey paint is ghoulish. unnatural like whitewashed brick or brownstone. an afterthought. bad design. Impossible to sand blast or scrub.
i sit with her waiting for the train. after coffee. lattes.
(she sits with her leg folded under her. or a knee pulled tight into her chest. her limbs are slender, she takes up no room at all. but once, years ago, i thought she was quite tall. when she walks her back is straight, her back arched. she bounds in spite of heavy oxfords and rugged jeans. rough fabric like husk protecting tender flesh. her lips have natural color contrasting with her smooth pale skin. i noticed these things years before. old news except for the navel ring. that is new news. leather jacket. an easy of movement. wire rimmed glasses.)
the metro came after a short while. it passed us as we at, my legs sprawled, knees apart; she sitting with legs under her. we stood and watched as the short train, only several cars, pulled way past us and we needed to walk a long way.
it made my hung mind clearer to spend time with her. to spend time outside on a winter day of 65 degrees. warm in jeans and a button down. walking under balmy skies. through eastern market. my head is throbbing. my throat is tight and i want to vomit and never smoke, never drink again. purge the toxins from my soul. from my body.
©1997 Chris Abraham ]]>she wears a green cardigan over a cotton shirt, tucked into heavy jeans. she wears tan leather work shoes. chunky tomboy urban wear. she has always dressed like this, even when in the office. soft translucent skin, moist and white. hints of blush in the cheeks. rough denim and soft skin. golden hair and golden wires holding her glasses on. he is bigger than she. he is wider and much taller. bearded. ruddy. heavy. with curious eyes that look at her, then the train.
he moves slowly, carefully for his mass is dangerous to others if unchecked. unchecked movement, even friendly claps, may throw another against a wall. They sit so that their knees touch. not from love but from comfort. because they have known each other for so long and can speak or move with ease. because they are friends. he scratches his beard and runs a hand through his hair. its to his shoulders uncut and dark brown. black jeans. steel toed boot, scuffed and brown.
©1997 Chris Abraham ]]>she wears a green cardigan over a cotton shirt, tucked into heavy jeans. she wears tan leather work shoes. chunky tomboy urban wear. she has always dressed like this, even when in the office. soft translucent skin, moist and white. hints of blush in the cheeks. rough denim and soft skin. golden hair and golden wires holding her glasses on. he is bigger than she. he is wider and much taller. bearded. ruddy. heavy. with curious eyes that look at her, then the train.
he moves slowly, carefully for his mass is dangerous to others if unchecked. unchecked movement, even friendly claps, may throw another against a wall. They sit so that their knees touch. not from love but from comfort. because they have known each other for so long and can speak or move with ease. because they are friends. he scratches his beard and runs a hand through his hair. its to his shoulders uncut and dark brown. black jeans. steel toed boot, scuffed and brown.
©1997 Chris Abraham ]]>sitting before the screen later, i will smell the dank air, see the sprung third rail. wait until the lamps at my feet flash in unison.
i notice her glasses. gold wire rimmed spectacles with a medium prescription. at the end of her powerful nose. blue eyes hidden behind. and she is sad often these days. sad for days before. like me, never having gotten over college.
still sipping coffee from a big plastic mug from au bon pain. steamy java in the grad class. professor winston napier. african american literary theory. sitting, fingering the xerox baraka, the xerox bam, the thick copies of out of print afrotext and the buzz buzz buzz of the blues men, the jazz funk earthy cool, sitting with the big boys, the intelligencia, the ebony tower. sitting there sipping a 40 of french roast and watching the leaves fall outside.
©1997 Chris Abraham ]]>sitting before the screen later, i will smell the dank air, see the sprung third rail. wait until the lamps at my feet flash in unison.
i notice her glasses. gold wire rimmed spectacles with a medium prescription. at the end of her powerful nose. blue eyes hidden behind. and she is sad often these days. sad for days before. like me, never having gotten over college.
still sipping coffee from a big plastic mug from au bon pain. steamy java in the grad class. professor winston napier. african american literary theory. sitting, fingering the xerox baraka, the xerox bam, the thick copies of out of print afrotext and the buzz buzz buzz of the blues men, the jazz funk earthy cool, sitting with the big boys, the intelligencia, the ebony tower. sitting there sipping a 40 of french roast and watching the leaves fall outside.
©1997 Chris Abraham ]]>